


Unto The Breach

by IndigoNight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, So much comfort, Spies & Secret Agents, but they love each other very much, the boys have a rough day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 13:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16765783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight
Summary: There are two versions of Tony Stark: to the public, he is cold and arrogant and takes what he wants from everyone he owns; in reality, he would do anything to protect the people under his care, especially his lovers.The world is a harsh and uncaring places for those forced into slavery, but with Tony's help Steve and Bucky intend to change that, one secret mission at a time.





	1. Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the WinterIron Reverse Bang 2018. Huge eternal thanks to the lovely [MassiveSpaceWren](http://massivespacewren.tumblr.com) for creating such [beautiful and inspiring art](http://massivespacewren.tumblr.com/post/180566786178/second-part-of-the-art-for-the-winteriron-rbb-run) that was the basis for this fic. I had a fantastic time writing this fic.
> 
>  **Important, please read:** This fic does deal with some dark stuff, including but not limited to abuse, non-con, and dehumanization. It is, for the most part, referenced (past events), implied (vague), and threatened (but doesn't actually happen). Steve, Tony, and Bucky are in a very loving and healthy relationship. They're doing the best they can in a world that makes things extremely difficult for them. 
> 
> Please be careful and take care of yourselves.
> 
> Enjoy!

Bucky tugs anxiously on the sleeve covering his metal arm. It’s loose, made out of some soft, silky material that flows, and covers him from shoulder to wrist. He’s matched by the flowy pants that barely meet the definition of pants thanks to the slit on the outer side of each leg reaching almost all the way up to his hip.

He feels stupid. He feels exposed. And with every second he feels increasingly ridiculous.

Back at the house he’d felt… well, he’d still felt kind of silly, but he’d also felt almost gorgeous. Steve had gone on and on about how the deep blue of the fabric brings out Bucky’s eyes and how the swishing flow of the loose silks emphasize his broad shoulders and slim legs. Tony had mostly grinned and mimed drooling and asked Bucky to do a few twirls for him. It had been equally flattering and embarrassing. Even the weight of the silver collar around his neck hadn’t bothered him; after all, it has Tony’s mark on it, and the biometric release is calibrated to  _ Bucky’s _ fingerprint and no one else’s. The silver bangles decorating his wrists and ankles are a bit distracting, as are the draping jeweled silver chains that cut across his chest and connect to the color to hold the sleeve covering his metal arm in place. But they also jangle softly whenever he moves in a way that’s strangely enticing. 

But it was one thing to get dressed up and admired by Steve and Tony in the privacy of their house - it’s another thing entirely to know that soon dozens, maybe even hundreds, of strangers are going to be staring at him. People who see him as nothing more than an object, or a tool to be used and thrown away; Bucky had lived that life for a long time, and over the year since Tony had bought him and changed everything, he’s already come a long way in putting that old life behind him, but there’s still an anxious itch in the back of his mind at the idea of stepping back into that world.

“Hey.” Tony’s voice has that low, warm quality to it that usually means he’s trying extra hard to be comforting and is making himself very uncomfortable because of it. Bucky might not have heard him speak, except that he’d also leaned forward to rest a hand on Bucky’s knee and draw his attention. Bucky’s head jerks up instinctively and he has to swallow hard against the tightness in his throat, because for all that Tony claims to be a cold hearted asshole, right now there’s nothing but gentle sincerity in his face.

“I’m okay,” Bucky says automatically, and thoroughly unconvincingly. He tugs at the hem of his sleeve again, and then fidgets with one of the bangles on his flesh wrist.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tony says, and he means it. Bucky kind of hates that he means it; as grateful as he is for everything that Tony’s done for him, sometimes he thinks it would be easier if Tony would just give him  _ orders _ once in a while instead of giving him so many  _ choices _ . “You can still stay in the car with Happy. Steve and I can handle this.”

At the sound of his name, Steve glances up from the blueprints that he’s been going over for the sixteenth time. Steve, of course, really does look gorgeous,  _ breathtakingly  _ gorgeous. He’s wearing even less than Bucky is, a crimson skirt that’s slit on both sides nearly all the way up to his waist and a strip of gauzy crimson fabric that drapes from his collar and attaches to the gold cuffs around each of his biceps. Steve, of course, seems perfectly at ease nearly naked and wearing half his weight in gold jewelry; and that is a whole other thing that Bucky is still struggling to wrap his head around. The Steve that Bucky had know had been self conscious and  _ furious _ about it, spending half his time holding up the nearest wall and the other half picking fights with anyone who looked at him funny. Steve now is so different, so at ease in his own skin. It’s good, really, Bucky is happy for him, but at the same time so much has changed.

“Buck?” Steve asks, his blueprints forgotten as he half turns on the limo seat to face Bucky.

Bucky ducks his head, overwhelmed by the kindness being leveled at him from both sides. There’s a faint blush rising to his cheeks and he _hates_ it; this whole re-learning how to act like a human being, how to handle being treated like a human being, it’s _exhausting_. “No, I can do it,” he says, forcing his voice to come out stronger and more convincing that he feels.

“You don’t have to,” Steve reiterates. Tony’s hand is still on Bucky’s knee and Bucky feels like his gaze is piercing right through to Bucky’s soul. “I can handle it on my own. Just because you don’t do this one doesn’t mean we can’t try again another time. Maybe you just aren’t ready.”

Bucky grits his teeth, glancing sideways at Steve through the strands of his hair that have come loose and fallen in front of his face. Steve gives him a smile and reaches out to tuck the hair back behind Bucky’s ear.

“And if you’re never ready, that’s fine too,” Tony adds. He squeezes Bucky’s knee one last time then leans back into the bench across from them and starts refilling his glass of scotch. “I am perfectly happy to keep you all to myself.” Tony winks, making sure that Bucky knows it’s a joke, that Tony would never really confine Bucky to the house or isolate him from other people. Bucky doesn’t really need the reassurance, not any more, but he appreciates it all the same.

Bucky takes a breath. “All we have to do is fake it long enough to get some incriminating photos, right?” he asks, even though he knows the answer; they’ve gone over every minute detail of this plan a hundred times in the past two weeks.

“I’ll never be more than twenty feet away,” Tony promises, “and if you run into any trouble you just hit your panic button. Worst comes to worst, there’s a tracker in your collar and another one in your arm. No matter what, both of you are coming back home with me safe and sound tonight.”

One more breath and Bucky nods. “Okay,” he says. It is reassuring, to know that Tony will be watching out for them. And Steve will have his back too; more importantly, Bucky will be there to have  _ Steve’s _ back. No more sitting at home worrying anxiously while Steve goes god knows where and does god knows what on his super secret missions that are definitely more dangerous than Steve tells him they are.

“Atta boy.” Tony grins and toasts Bucky with joking salute before taking a sip of his drink.

“Here, let me fix your hair,” Steve says. He scoots across the bench seat so that he’s tucked up against Bucky’s side. With graceful fingers he smooths Bucky’s hair back out again, making sure to tuck in the strands that had previously come loose before skillfully twisting it back up into a neat bun. “There,” Steve announces, pulling back with a grin. “You look so gorgeous.”

“Here here,” Tony concurs. He passes Bucky a glass with a finger of scotch in it. “Confidence juice,” he says with grin. Bucky hesitates for a second, then takes the drink and downs it in one swallow.

“Just in time,” Steve warns, looking out through the tinted limo windows. “We’re here.”

Happy slows the limo to a stop in front of a building that from the outside looks dark and bland. Just like they practiced, Bucky gets out first, holding out a hand to help first Steve then Tony out. Then Happy pulls away and Tony wraps one arm around each of their waists.

It’s chilling to see the transformation that comes over Tony. Bucky’s seen it before, in bits and pieces on the previous occasions that he’d accompanied Tony out in public, and in full, terrifying force in some of the videos of Tony that populate YouTube. But he’s never been this close to it before, never seen the total transformation as the playful, kind Tony that Bucky knows vanishes under a mask of aloof cruelty. It’s fake, Bucky knows it’s fake. It’s just a show, the same way that the collars and ridiculous costumes Bucky and Steve are wearing are for show. It’s to give the illusion that society expects, the illusion that protects all three of them and the secret mission they’re on. These people will see Tony as an arrogant, selfish billionaire who enjoys and takes full advantage of free slave labor, and Bucky and Steve as just his play toys, there for entertainment and eye candy and a quick fuck if Tony’s in the mood. And none of them will look past that illusion, because every single person inside of the building in front of them will actually be what the three of them are pretending to be.

Together the three of them move forward and Bucky could swear that the plain metal door is looming larger the closer they get to it. Before he can start to panic, out of the corner of his eye, he catches Tony squeeze Steve’s ass and the fond glare that Steve shoots at him matched by Tony’s utterly unrepentant grin; and Bucky can breathe again. Because his Steve and Tony are still there under the cold mask and silly costume, because Tony meant every word that he’d said about protecting them and getting them home safe. Because as soon as this is over the three of them will go back home, take off these silly clothes, and curl up together in Tony’s gigantic bed; and if they’re successful, in the morning, a corrupt politician who really does treat people like objects will be under investigation.

Bucky reaches out and opens the door; he feels numb, anxious shivers running up and down his back. But as soon as Bucky opens the door to the building, there isn’t enough of Bucky’s brain left to be anxious. The sound of drums and sitars and… other things that Bucky isn’t cultured enough to identify immediately start pouring out of the open doorway. They push their way through a hallway full of gauzy drapes of fabric that opens out into a large open room. There are brightly painted columns dotted around the room, groups of cushions and lounging couches pulled together in loose circles, and in each corner a glittering cage containing two collared dancers as they twist and undulate around each other - Bucky had thought his outfit was embarrassing, but those dancers are barely even wearing scraps of completely see through cloth.

And then there’s the people. Powerful men and women in suits and ball gowns that undoubtedly cost more than Bucky’s parents had seen in their entire lives, all lounging on couches or standing in small groups holding drinks and being fed canapes by gilded, kneeling slaves. All that is overwhelming enough, but then Bucky notices the  _ other _ slaves, the ones who’s flowing skirts have been hiked up to their waists or pulled off entirely, the ones who are bent over couches, on their hands and knees on cushions, and far, far worse. Lights speckle the room in patterns of soft blues, yellows, and reds, but even the dim ‘mood’ lighting can’t hide the bruises, welts, scabs, and burns that litter so much exposed flesh.

Bucky feels sick, and it’s only the steadying weight of Tony’s arm around his waist that keeps him in place. Tony propels them through the room easily, calling out greetings and acknowledgements to the suited and gowned people as they pass. He leads them to the bar and gets himself a drink, then settles in on a couch as though he’s going to hold court. Smoothly, without so much as blinking, Steve sinks to his knees on a cushion at Tony’s feet, and after a beat Bucky follows suit. It’s only because they’ve rehearsed this a hundred times, only Steve’s calm and Tony’s commanding presence that keeps Bucky moving at all. 

He feels detached from his body, as though his brain is refusing to process what he’s seeing, or hearing, or doing. He’s been in awful places before - truthfully, he’s not a stranger to anything that’s happening in this room, just never on this scale. There are so many people in this room, all of them either participating in or blithely ignoring the horrors that are happening around them. He lets himself lean a little against Tony’s knee and it’s comforting, the only thin thread keeping him grounded to this reality. It’s easier to just focus on the warmth of Tony’s body, the soft, extremely expensive fabric of his pants, the way Tony periodically jiggles his leg with barely contained energy; as long as he’s focusing on Tony’s presence, he doesn’t have to think about the muted cries and sobs, the scent of sex and blood that’s beginning to clog up the air of the room. Distantly, he hears Tony talking, knows that Tony is doing his part of the mission by socializing with the rich assholes that he pretends are his peers, maintaining contacts, keeping his cover, skillfully ferreting out intel. Bucky just lets the sound wash over him distantly without processing a single word of it; it’s all he can do to remember to keep breathing, to let the solid warmth of Tony’s leg keep him upright.

Bucky has no idea how much time passes. His chest hurts, he’s dizzy, his nose is clogging with smells that he knows all too well and hates, and there’s sweat sliding down his back to make the seam where his metal arm is attached to his shoulder itch.

And then, there’s a hand in his hair. Bucky flinches instinctively, wanting to draw away from the touch, wanting to crawl into a hole and hide for the next century. But the fingers are soft and gentle, smoothing through his hair and around to cup the back of his neck and the knot of nausea in Bucky’s chest loosens because it’s  _ Tony’s _ hand. He glances up to see Tony leaning over him, face angled so that only Bucky can see his drawn, concerned expression. A quick glance around and Bucky realizes that, for the moment, they’re alone, the creeps that Tony has been schmoozing having moved on. He also realizes that Steve is no longer kneeling on Tony’s other side.

Tony’s grip on the back of Bucky’s head shifts; to the outside observer, it probably looks like Tony is dragging Bucky up by his bun, but really he’s supporting the back of Bucky’s head and urging him upward. Bucky goes, still too overwhelmed and detached from his body to even consider resisting, and he ends up half in Tony’s lap. Tony keeps a hand on the side of Bucky’s face and adjusts them so that it looks like he’s pining Bucky down for a rough make out session. Sheltered by the illusion, Tony leans in until their lips are just a hair’s breadth away from each other, his eyes warm and soft as he holds Bucky’s gaze.

“Are you with me?” Tony asks, his voice a whisper that brushes in little puffs of air across Bucky’s lips; it’s distracting enough that Bucky’s body starts to unwind like some kind of pavlovian response. 

Bucky swallows hard. “I’m sorry,” he whispers back.

Tony grimaces and rubs his thumb softly across the arch of Bucky’s cheek bone. “We should’ve known that this would be too much too soon. Do you want me to call Happy? You can still go out and wait in the car. No judgment.”

It’s tempting. It’s so fucking tempting and Bucky hates himself for that. “Where’s Steve?” he asks. As comforting as being held by Tony is, the fact that he doesn’t know where in this hellscape Steve’s gone is twisting whole new knots of terror in the pit of his stomach.

“He went to get what we’re here for. It shouldn’t take him more than ten minutes. Do you think you can hold out that long?”

“I was supposed to go with him,” Bucky mutters; he’s not even whispering intentionally anymore, it’s just that if he forces his voice any louder it will definitely crack and then he’ll  _ really _ feel like a pathetic failure.

“It’s okay, Steve can handle it,” Tony dismisses. “You need to take care of yourself.”

“But-” Bucky starts, but it’s weak. His chest is tight and he can feel the panic rising again at the idea of leaving the warm shelter of Tony’s arms. Except Steve is out there in the middle of this horror show alone, and Bucky doesn’t care how many times Steve’s done something like this before, or that Steve is some kind of super badass secret spy now. But Bucky is badass too… or, he used to be. There had been a time when Bucky was the most infamous assassin in the world, when he was feared and coveted; he’d been stolen from his rightful masters at least three times by people who wanted to take advantage of his skills. He is stronger than this. He does not panic and hide. He does not wuss out on his missions. And he really, really does not abandon or let down the people he cares about.

He takes another breath and shakes his head. “Steve needs backup. I’m fine. I’ll do it.” He’s still anxious, but he’s no longer overwhelmed by it. He can think again. He can process the buzz of music and conversation around them. He can smell the blood but set that aside - he’s been  _ bathed _ in blood before, this is nothing, comparatively.

Tony doesn’t look convinced. His eyebrows are drawn together in an expression of concern that he definitely learned from Steve - it isn’t quite as effective without the addition of Steve’s stubborn jaw jutting out and the Frown of Disappointment, but it still does the trick. His calloused thumb strokes Bucky’s cheekbone again, and then shifts down to adjust the large dangling earring clipped to Bucky’s ear. “You remember all the contingency plans?” Tony asks.

“And came up with a couple extras, just in case,” Bucky confirms. His heart is beating hard enough that it’s making his ribs ache, but it’s steady and strong.

“Just get the pictures and get out,” Tony reiterates, his expression firm. “Hit the panic button if you need to, and any other tool it takes to get the job done.”

Bucky smiles a little, his anxiety pushed aside by the warmth spreading from his chest out to fill his entire body; maybe it’s twisted, but Tony’s  _ worried _ about him, and that’s so reassuring that it almost makes up for the horror that had overwhelmed him for so long. He leans in to press a shy, chaste kiss to Tony’s lips. “I’ll be careful, and I’ll do my best to make sure Steve is too,” he promises, making Tony huff a little laugh.

“Okay,” Tony nods reluctantly. “Show time.” And there’s that transformation again, in an instant the soft tenderness in Tony’s eyes is gone, his mouth has gone hard and his expression cold. He sits up, pushing Bucky off of the couch - which Bucky was ready for, and thanks to plenty of practice he allows himself to drop in a controlled fall that only _ looks _ like he lands in a heap on his face. “Get up,” Tony snaps, all ice and diamond sharp edges, his voice just loud enough to be heard by those around them, even though no one so much as glances at them twice. “What the fuck is keeping that useless whore? Get your filthy ass off of the floor and drag him back here before I decide to sell you both.”

Bucky pushes himself to his hands and knees, then up to his feet. He keeps his head bowed submissively and his wrists crossed in front of him. “Yes, master,” he says quietly, the very picture of cowed and broken. Before turning to go, he risks one quick glance up at Tony’s face just in time to see the briefest flash of shame and regret hidden in Tony’s eyes; that is something that they are definitely going to have to address. But for now, Bucky needs to keep his head in the game. 

He forces himself to turn away, makes his eyes focus as he scans the room. It isn’t hard to spot Steve despite the fact that Steve is, at the very least, a good four inches shorter than almost everyone else in the room; the bright crimson and glittering gold of his outfit helps, as does the fact that Bucky had finely honed his find-Steve-before-gets-himself-killed radar by the age of seven. Steve is making his way slowly and gracefully across the room. He has an agile sway to his walk, and periodically does a shimmy or a twirl that makes his silky skirt swish alluringly around his legs. He fits right in with the other slaves scattered across the room, the ones who aren’t currently being… used and are similarly swaying around the room serving as dancers or delivering drinks. For a second - just a second - it’s distracting to see how graceful Steve is, the way he almost seems like an actual dancer, how the glittering of his golden jewelry emphasizes his slim limbs and the long, graceful strength of his torso. He’s beautiful, and he’s confident, casually sliding through and around clusters of people as though he lives for this sort of thing, gracefully side stepping the periodic hand that reaches out to grope him or pinch his ass; he’s a far cry from the scrawny, sickly ball of fury and angst that Bucky had grown up with and all Bucky can feel is awe.

Except that now is not the time to moon over Steve anymore than it was the time to cling and cuddle up to Tony. Bucky takes a less direct but more subtle path across the room; he sticks to the edges, half hidden by the shadows of the dark corners between swaths of draping fabric - at least, the corners that aren’t already occupied - so that he can circle around to meet Steve without drawing any more attention than absolutely necessary.

He’s still a few feet away when Steve catches his eye and gives him a subtle nod. They meet up just at the far edge of the room. Steve doesn’t even break stride, he just takes Bucky’s hand and starts a slow, gyrating rhythm against him. Bucky has nowhere near the grace that Steve does; he’d enjoyed dancing when they were teens, before… everything, but this  _ shimmying _ thing that Steve’s doing is something else entirely. Luckily, that doesn’t seem to matter because apparently Steve knows exactly what he’s doing. With delicate, graceful steps Steve works them around in a slow circle. He makes it look natural, like they’re just two toys, two living pieces of decoration dancing for the enjoyment of the room full of masters, no different than so many other glittering, ornamented slaves in this room.

It’s possible that Steve was born to be a spy.

But then they can’t worry or think about anything else because their target is in sight. His name is Denis Frayser, a politician in his seventh term as a member of the House of Representatives, and chair of the committee for Civil Rights and Protections of Enslaved Individuals. In other words, a big fat hypocrite. Despite the fact that Frayser almost exclusively runs his platforms on improving the legal status of slaves, Tony and Steve’s contacts had dug up some worrying rumors about what really happens to the slaves in Frayser’s own household, and even more disturbing rumors about what he gets up to at parties like this. It certainly explains how he keeps getting re-elected, anyway, the abolitionists support him because they think he’s on their side, and the one percenters who’s corporations make most of their profits thanks to free labor and cutting corners on housing and food for their “work force” support him even more because they know he’s really on their side. 

If Bucky hadn’t already been warned about how despicable this guy is, the sight in front of them might have shaken him out of his recently recovered determination. There are a series of curtained of “rooms” scattered around the edges of the party, though they only offer an illusion of privacy; like most of the fabric decorating the room, the “walls” of the spaces are flowing drapes of semi-sheer fabric that tend not to fully meet at the corners, perfect for exhibitionists and voyeurs who like to pretend they aren’t doing what they’re doing.

And through the gap at the corner of the curtained off room that Steve has perfectly positioned them in front of, Bucky can clearly see Frayser looming over two cowering and bleeding boys. Bucky grits his teeth and lets his eyes unfocus as he triggers the hidden mechanism in the thick cuff around his flesh wrist. He knows that Steve has done the same, even though he keeps up the smooth gyrating dance.

“Just focus on me,” Steve whispers, leaning in close to Bucky’s ear and giving him a commiserating grimace. So Bucky does. He stares down into Steve’s face, lets himself focus on the jut of Steve’s jaw, the glimmer of determination in his eyes, and the way the blankly polite smile on his face is tight around the corners. Steve makes sure that the nearly microscopic camera lens Bucky’s cuff is positioned perfect to get a good angle between the gap in the curtains, while Steve keeps his own arm gracefully posed in the air so that his cuff gets another angle on the horror show happening inside. As long as they stay here, keeping up the show of innocuous dancing, the tiny hidden cameras will automatically continue to snap incriminating photos of Frayser’s activities.

“You really look amazing,” Bucky whispers the next time Steve’s ear comes close enough to his mouth for it to go unnoticed. He wraps his free arm around Steve’s waist, resting his metal hand against Steve’s flat stomach. For a second, Steve’s smile becomes genuine and there’s a faint flush of red in his cheeks that matches his outfit.

“Pepper really knows how to dress a fella,” Steve demures, though Bucky’s busy staring at the graceful flutter of Steve’s long lashes against his cheeks. He wishes they were at home - he wishes they were literally anywhere else but here - so that he could press a kiss to the long column of Steve’s neck, so that he could hold Steve close with both hands; he wouldn’t mind wearing this outfit and doing this silly dance if it was just Tony watching them, if he could watch the way Tony’s eyes would light up not only with desire but with joy and fondness.

Except they aren’t at home, Tony is on the far side of the room with dozens of assholes between them, and Bucky is supposed to be focusing on the mission at hand. He makes himself look through the gap again and every muscle in his body tenses - one of the boys is collapsed in the corner and Bucky can’t tell if he’s even breathing any more, while Frayser has his hand around the other boy’s neck, the boy sobbing and begging desperately even though he barely has enough air to actually make sound.

He feels Steve tense against him and knows Steve has come to the same conclusion that Bucky has - the rumors are true, and those boys are going to die. It happens in a split second, Steve glances at Bucky over his shoulder and with that single look it’s like they’re back in the alley behind a shitty dive bar in Brooklyn. Steve lifts one leg and goes up on his toes as though he’s about to go into an elaborate spin, which he does, until halfway through he purposely loses his balance and brings both of them crashing through the gauzy curtains.

Frayser, in his surprise, drops the boy, who immediately crawls for his friend and curls up as small as he can possibly get around his motionless body.

Despite his best efforts, Bucky had mostly fallen on top of Steve when Steve pulled them over. Which had worried Bucky for about 10 seconds until the litany of curses and insults that Frayser hurls at them is joined by several sharp kicks which Bucky manages to catch in the ribs. Bucky forces himself to breathe through it, all too familiar with the sensation as he keeps himself braced over top of Steve and absorbs the blows. Of course, it doesn’t last long before Steve is shoving Bucky off and wiggling out from under him. Steve makes it to his feet while Bucky is still trying to make his spasming diaphragm start working again, but Frayser almost immediately has Steve by the hair, nearly yanking him over again.

“What the fuck is wrong with you imbeciles?” Frayser snarls, forcing Steve’s head back so far that it looks like his neck is about to snap; even from his position on the floor Bucky can see the familiar rage in Steve’s eyes, can see how hard he’s working to physically restrain himself from fighting back.

“I-I’m sorry, master,” Steve lies, all big doe eyes and affected stammer despite the anger seething underneath. “W-We tripped.”

Frayser snarls. “Well, perhaps you need a lesson in manners then,” he growls and Bucky’s entire body goes cold; Bucky  _ knows _ that growl, he  _ knows _ what ‘lessons’ and ‘manners’ really mean in this kind of place. His throat goes tight and he feels himself start to shake. All the contingency plans and tools and escape routes that they’d so carefully planned out are just gone, his brain a frozen, terrified blank.

Maybe Bucky would have shaken it off - he’s certainly trying - when big meaty hands grab his arms and yank him upward. Two massive bodyguards have come up behind him, and at some point another two had come around to flank Frayser and Steve. They’re all as broad as Bucky or broader, and the shortest of them has at least two inches on him. The two that have Bucky drag him to his knees and force his arms behind his back. There isn’t time to react, isn’t time to do anything before a set of thick, heavy metal cuffs clamp around Bucky’s wrists. And then he’s being pulled to his feet and shoved out of the ruined gauze cubicle; he just manages to twist his head around enough to see that Steve is receiving much the same treatment with Frayser still leering and bringing up the rear.

It’s a bit like stepping off of a curb you didn’t realize was there when they’re pushed out of the party room with its bright fabrics and hubbub of noise into a dark, dingy hallway made out of plain cement. There are thick iron doors lining the hallway, and Bucky  _ knows _ , he can smell, can sense, can  _ taste _ the years of misery and pain that are layered into these walls. Halfway down the hallway, one of the bodyguards moves up to open a door and they’re shoved through.

Just as Bucky had expected, it’s the bland, dank scene of a nightmare. Rough gray cement walls, a dingy tiled floor with a drain set in the middle, several sets of manacles affixed to the wall and a whole array of implements and tools that can’t possibly be for anything good.

Bucky’s muscles lock up instinctively, the heels of his bare feet - why  _ the fuck _ couldn’t they wear shoes to this  _ stupid party _ ? - trying to dig into the cold tile, trying to resist crossing the threshold into that room. But he’s out matched and his efforts are so futile that the goons barely even seem to notice. He’s tossed carelessly into a corner of the room and kicked until he stays down - for the moment - meanwhile, Steve is dragged over to a set of manacles on the wall, his left wrist pulled up above his head and locked into the heavy metal cuff.

Bucky is glaring as hard as he can, fully prepared to drop the submissive act now. He’d lost precious seconds during his momentary panic and missed the chance to press the panic button hidden in his communication cuff that would summon Tony to them immediately - he hopes against hope that Steve managed to hit his, but with every second that passes that’s seeming less and less likely. Bucky is fully prepared to at least try to jump to his feet, burly guards standing over him be damned. Distantly, belatedly, it occurs to him that his metal arm might be strong enough to break the restraints on his arm; Tony is a genius, after all, who loves to remind him that the arm is a marvel of engineering, and who makes  _ yet another _ version every time he thinks of some “cool” new gadget to add. Bucky is strong - the arm is stronger.

But he doesn’t get the chance, because before he can follow through on any of his half baked plans Frayser has selected a wicked looking knife and moved in front of Steve. For the moment, he seems to just be toying with it, mocking Steve and dangling the threat in front of him. And Bucky hates it, hates it with every fiber of his being but he can’t risk it, not when there’s a sharp knife barely centimeters from Steve’s throat and more than six feet of distance between them.

“You are a pretty little thing,” Frayser muses, “you should be more careful. It would really be a shame if I had to ruin your sweet little face.”

Steve stays silent, teeth grit and eyes hard, but Bucky suspects that Frayser is so deep in his own power game, so busy seeing what he wants to see that he can’t notice that Steve is no longer cowering.

Frayser delicately slips the tip of the knife under Steve’s collar, so dangerously close to the hollow of Steve’s throat. “Stark, huh,” Frayser snorts, eyeing the ownership mark engraved into Steve’s collar. “I’d heard he likes his sluts a little wild, but still, I would have expected at least some discipline.”

Bucky watches the steel glint of the knife tip disappear under Steve’s collar and then come back out the other side, his eyes glued to the shocking contrast between the metal and Steve’s pale skin. And then all he can see is red. He snarls, all low animal instinct, and the chain linking his wrists to each other behind his back snaps like a twig. He lurches to his feet and rushes toward Frayser, his sole focus on just getting his hands around the man’s evil neck; no room left in his mind for fears of not reaching Steve in time, he is going to do it, and he is going to do it in time because this man is a monster and Steve is in danger and that is all that matters.

He almost makes it. He has the briefest tactile sensation of his metal fingers brushing against the fabric of Frayser’s already rumpled and blood spotted suit before he’s abruptly struck by lightning. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. In reality, it’s two cattle prods - undoubtedly at a settling that would stop the heart of most men - one striking him in the right shoulder and the other hitting dead center on his lower back. It lasts for an indeterminable amount of time, the pain overwhelming, his muscles locking and spasming uncontrollably. He’d hit the ground hard when the shocking started and Bucky is distantly aware of something wet and thick sliding down the side of his face.

When it finally stops Bucky’s eyes won’t focus. He has to re-teach his lungs how to breathe. His muscles are still twitching spasmodically, and he’s pretty sure that he’s going to throw up - if he hasn’t already. It’s a hand in his hair that brings him back into focus. For a second, one blissful second he thinks  _ Tony _ and leans into the touch, but then the blur of tears clears from his eyes enough to see Frayser’s leering face looming over him.

“Now you,” Frayser says, as though he’s made some thrilling discovery, “you’re a feisty one. I like feisty, tends to last longer.” Frayser runs a finger down Bucky’s cheek in yet another sickeningly twisted ghost of Tony’s earlier caresses. When he withdraws his fingers they’re streaked with Bucky’s blood; Bucky half expects Frayser to  _ lick _ them like the damn leech he is. He is also deeply tempted to lash out and bite the man’s fingers - off, hopefully. But he hasn’t fully regained control of his body yet, so he contents himself with glaring as he bides his time. “Yes,” Frayser continues, pulling a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiping the blood off on it, “I am going to have fun with you. Just as soon as I finish with your pretty little friend.”

Bucky snarls but before he can try anything one of the guards hits him with a cattle prod again, and then all four of them are grabbing him and dragging him back away from Steve. Frayser stands, turning back to Steve. “Alright pretty boy,” he smirks, “let’s see what else you’ve got.” It’s a small consolation that he doesn’t retrieve the knife; it’s significantly less of a consolation that he’s apparently decided he doesn’t need it, not when Steve is already practically naked and what he is wearing is specifically designed to provide easy access to the parts of his anatomy that Frayser has set his attention on.

Steve is holding himself so still, so tightly contained that he’s trembling with it; to the uninitiated eye, it probably looks like he’s shaking with fear, but Bucky knows better. When Frayser runs a hand down the smooth plane of Steve’s stomach, Steve sucks in a sharp breath, his abs tightening and his eyes burning with rage.

“So smooth,” Frayser hums. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix that soon enough.” And then Frayser’s hand is moving lower, pulling aside the panel of fabric that makes up the front half of Steve’s skirt. 

Bucky wants to  _ scream _ , his own skin prickling with the ghost of unfriendly hands, phantoms of his own screams echoing in his ears, but both are morphing into Frayser’s hands and Steve’s screams, Steve’s blood, Steve’s pale, soft skin marred with hand shaped bruises and bitemarks. Frayser’s hand is stroking down Steve’s thigh and heading inward. Bucky is about to shake right out of his skin with rage and the urge, no,  _ need _ to protect.

And then Steve’s thighs are around Frayser’s neck. It happened so fast that Bucky didn’t even actually see it, just one second Steve was helpless, pressed up against the wall, and then the next his legs are locked around Frayser’s neck while Frayser’s face rapidly starts to turn purple. Then Steve reaches out with his free hand - stupid of Frayser to only cuff one of Steve’s arms, but then again, that’s part of what makes Steve so good at this, people constantly underestimate him - and he’s drawing one of the fine, razor sharp stilettos that are concealed in his “ornamental” ankle cuffs.

Bucky takes his cue. With a roar he swings his metal arm in a full three-sixty, the metal fist slamming first into the jaw of one goon and then the throat of the next. It gives him enough room to grab for the chain draping over his right shoulder that only  _ looks _ like silver and is designed to detach easily. Armed with the strand of metal in both hands, Bucky wheels on the nearest guard and wraps the chain around his neck, twisting tightly.

He’s so focused on the guy he’s garroting that he almost doesn’t notice that one of the other goons had recovered enough to try and come up on his exposed side. Luckily, Steve does notice and there’s a flash of gold colored metal spinning past Bucky’s cheek followed by a thunk and a cry as the man doubles over clutching his shoulder. The man in Bucky’s grip finally goes limp and he drops the heavy body. 

The goon with Steve’s knife in his shoulder recovers and all three of them start advancing. Bucky backs up, aiming for Steve. He’s almost within reach when Frayser breaks loose from Steve’s thigh hold; too busy for finesse, Bucky gives the creep a solid punch to the nose with his metal fist. As soon as Frayser stumbles back, clutching his broken nose and swearing, Bucky reaches his destination, circling around so that he can reach Steve’s restrained hand. It’s easy enough to crush the locking mechanism on the cuff keeping Steve against the wall between his metal fingers - bless Tony and his engineering genius - and Bucky’s ready to catch Steve when he stumbles just a little as he lands.

Steve recovers rapidly, pausing just long enough to give Bucky a hungry grin, then he’s whirling on their opponents. He starts popping off the innocuous looking beads on his gaudy necklace, handing a couple to Bucky before he starts launching them at Frayser. The beads make tiny explosions when they hit - looking and sounding for all the world like those little Pop-Its fireworks they used to enjoy throwing when they were kids - but the result is more like a small shotgun shell, leaving a starburst burn and dozens of small pellets buried deep in the victim’s flesh.

Bucky launches his own handful of bead-bombs rapid fire at the goons, but they must be wearing some kind of kevlar under those stereotypical black t-shirts - which definitely clash with the theme of the party - and only the two that Bucky manages to land on the already-stabbed guy’s neck and face seem to have any effect. So instead, Bucky pulls off the dangling earring, flicking the tiny trigger mechanism that Tony had hidden in one of the gems. He tosses it so that it lands on the floor square between the cluster of three goons. Like something out of a cartoon, they all three pause to stare down at the blue and green peacock design earring at their feet, and stay that way just long enough for the innocuous looking piece of jewelry to burst with a blinding flash of light and start spewing a thick cloud of smoke. 

Bucky backs up a few steps, making sure that Steve is with him. There’s the sound of choking coughing from inside the smoke screen and they can just see the silhouettes of the goons doubled over; Tony hadn’t actually explained what he put in that smoke bomb, but Bucky’s glad he and Steve are just outside of its reach. Reassured that they have at least a few minutes before they have to worry about the goons again, Bucky glances sideways to where Frayser is on the floor, clutching his knee and groaning while his nose continues to bleed freely. It’s kind of satisfying.

“You okay?” Steve asks, waiting a few beats after he’s spoken to rest his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky startles anyway, though he’s more thrown off by the question than the touch. “I’m fine. Are you?” He wants to turn to Steve, wants to pull him close and examine every inch of him to make sure that Bucky hadn’t missed something awful being done to him.

“Honestly? I’m a little disappointed,” Steve says and Bucky can  _ hear  _ the crooked smile in Steve’s voice. “I was kind of hoping for more of a fight.”

“Well, the goons are still between us and the door,” Bucky points out. He’s not quite on board with the levity in Steve’s voice, but it’s at least reassuring to know that  _ Steve  _ feels comfortable enough to joke.

“What toys did Tony pack your arm with?” Steve asks, and Bucky can feel him standing up on his tiptoes to peer over Bucky’s shoulder like an excited kid.

“Uh.” Honestly, after all of the excitement, that morning when Tony had filled the hidden compartment in his arm feels like a year ago and it’s like the overwhelming  _ everything _ that has happened since has dropped a film of panic and exhaustion over his memory. “A collapsible truncheon, maybe?”

They don’t get the chance to further discuss the subject, however, because two things happen at once. First, the door bursts open so hard that it slams back into the wall and nearly cracks the concrete. “I heard that someone is touching my property without my-!” Tony starts off shouting, but then he pauses, blinking through the now thinning smoke at the room. “Oh, we’re done with the talking and lying part. Great. I’m tired of talking anyway.”

The second thing is that Frayser manages to drag himself back to his feet, his face a red and purple mess, his eyes wild with rage. “You scum!” he snarls. “You filthy, disgusting animals! I’ll take you apart one piece at a time!”

Tony groans and rolls his eyes. “I really fucking regret voting for you,” he mutters. Then he triggers a mechanism in his watch and it expands, spreading out into a half gauntlet with a glowing blue repulsor in the palm of his hand. Tony braces his feet, and fires, the beam of blue light arcing through the room and striking Frayser smack in the middle of his chest. Frayser makes half of a startled cry and crumples backwards to lay in an unmoving. 

“Just in time,” Steve says. He’s grinning as he steps out from behind Bucky, rotating the shoulder of the arm that had been restrained over his head. Then he freezes and squints at Tony. “Did you just say that you’re  _ tired of talking _ ? Quick, Bucky, I think we need to find an exorcist or something.”

“Hilarious,” Tony mutters. He pauses at each of the five limp bodies as he crosses the room, injecting something into each of their necks. “Why didn’t you activate your panic button? Either one of you?” he demands, his voice tight.

“Didn’t get the chance,” Steve says with a shrug. “Sorry.” Tony levels a flat look at Steve, a distinctly unimpressed and only slightly pacified look. “We handled it, didn’t we?” Steve points out with a raised eyebrow, but Tony stills doesn’t relax. With a sigh, Steve crosses the short distance left between them, drapes his arms around Tony’s neck, and with one light bounce has his legs wrapped around Tony’s waist. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Tony’s lips. “Let’s go home,” he says quietly. “You promised us cuddling, remember?”

Tony narrows his eyes, but he returns Steve’s kiss and nods. “Home and cuddling,” he agrees.

“Good boy,” Steve teases, dropping back down to the ground with a grin.

Meanwhile, Bucky is… sitting. He doesn’t remember sitting. And yet here he is, ass down on the cold, dirty tiles staring blankly at the mangled remains of his earring; he’d like that earring, he thinks vaguely, shame it’s gone. Distantly, he’d heard the exchange between Steve and Tony, but he hadn’t really processed it, just letting the bickering sound of  _ home  _ wash over him.

“Bucky?” The sound of his name makes Bucky startle and look up; Steve and Tony are holding hands, standing directly in front of him with weirdly identical expressions of concern. Suddenly, Bucky sees a lot of fussing and hovering in his future.

“I’m okay,” he says, immediate and automatic.

“Bullshit,” Steve answers just as promptly.

Tony lets go of Steve’s hand so that he can squat down in front of Bucky. “Happy’s already waiting with the car just outside the back door. Fifteen feet down the hallway, and another three to the car. Hell, if you’re feeling brave enough to risk it, I’ll even get the bots to come carry you inside once we get home. Deal?” Tony gives him a small smile, and there it is again, all the guilt and shame and regret mixed with a determined effort to be reassuring. 

Bucky swallows hard and nods. Eighteen feet, he can do that. And as soon as they’re in the limo he can make absolutely sure that Steve is okay, and then he’ll start working on convincing Tony that none of this is his fault, and- 

Tony holds out a hand to help Bucky up, and Bucky flinches so hard that he nearly topples over. Suddenly he can’t breathe. He’s cold all over and his arms instinctively curl in as though to protect his already bruised ribs. All traces of a smile immediately drops off of Tony’s face and he withdraws his hand as though he’s been burned. “Shit,” Tony mutters, running his hand through his hair instead. “I-”

“It’s fine,” Bucky mutters, and he knows they won’t believe him but it’s like his mouth is stuck and he’s only capable of saying those two words. He braces his metal arm on the ground and levers himself up with it; he has to catch himself before he over balances with a stumbling half step, and then stop and close his eyes against a brief wave of dizziness. He knows, without looking, that Tony is still staring at him with the martyr expression that he  _ definitely  _ learned from Steve. But Bucky doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want any of this. He wants the ridiculous, hyperactive Tony he fell for. He wants Tony in his workshop making things explode and threatening the bots. He wants Tony curled up on the couch yelling at Star Wars while Steve defends it. He wants Steve and Tony bickering and driving each other crazy until they end up in the bedroom being very loud in a very different way. He wants Tony laughing and rambling, like his mouth is too fast for his brain to keep up.

He realizes that the corners of his eyes are burning, and he might be about to throw up.

“Hey Buck,” Steve says, moving in closer but being very careful not to touch him. His voice is gentle and cautious, the kind of voice a person uses when they’re talking to a frightened animal; a lot of people had used that voice on Bucky back in the beginning, back when everything was raw and painful and Bucky may as well have  _ been  _ a frightened animal. But not from Steve, never Steve. “Let’s go home, okay?”

  
Bucky just nods. He desperately wishes that his hair had come loose from its bun so that he could hide behind it, but as it is he just keeps his head turned down and his arms curled in tight to his body. He follows Steve and Tony wordlessly out of the room and down the grim concrete hallway -  _ away  _ from the party room, thank fucking god. The cool night air hits Bucky’s face like a slap, except that it’s reassuring and bracing and helps ground Bucky back in his body. Just like Tony had promised, Happy is waiting as close to the door as it’s possible for a limo to be. He holds the door open for them as all three slide in gratefully.


	2. Comfort

Bucky doesn’t examine every inch of Steve to make sure he’s okay on the ride back. And he doesn’t try to get Tony to talk about the guilt that Bucky knows is burning Tony up inside either. He wants to, he does, except that every time he thinks about touching  _ anybody  _ his stomach lurches and the back of his throat fills up with bile. So instead Steve curls up in Tony’s lap, and Bucky sits on the opposite bench, making himself as small as possible while pressing himself against the window so hard that he’s a little worried he might break it.

He knows Steve and Tony are shooting looks at him, knows they’re worried. But he can’t look at them. He’d shaken his hair loose as soon as the car started moving and is studiously hiding behind it, feeling miserable. Rationally, he understands why this has hit him so hard and why he’s reacting like this; Tony does hire extremely good therapists, after all, even if Tony refuses to talk to them himself. And yet… he hasn’t flinched from Tony’s touch since the second month after Tony had brought him home, over a year ago now, and he has  _ never _ flinched from Steve, never been less than thrilled for even the slightest brush of Steve’s shoulder against his own.

The silence in the car is heavy, almost a tangible thing. Distantly through the closed partition Bucky can hear Happy humming quietly along with the radio. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Steve and Tony starting to do that thing where they have an entire conversation with nothing but mobile eyebrows and pointed chins and the occasional aborted hand gesture - Bucky hopes, someday, he’ll be able to be a part of those conversations, that maybe eventually he’ll be able to catch up with the years Steve and Tony had together without him. But for right now, it’s kind of a relief not to know. He doesn’t have to try an interpret the looks, doesn’t have to worry about what they’re saying. He can guess that it’s probably at least forty percent about him, and that’s more than he wants to know.

Thankfully, it isn’t a particularly long ride back to the house, although the tension and exhaustion twisting in the pit of Bucky’s stomach makes it feel like so much longer. When the car comes to a stop Bucky forces his muscles to unlock so that he can slide out of the car before the other two move or Happy can get around to open the door. But once he’s out of the car - and moved to the side enough not to block Steve and Tony - he stops. Suddenly he isn’t sure what to do. The house, Tony’s house,  _ their _ house, which has finally begun to feel like home suddenly seems too big, looming over him in a way that makes it hard to breathe. And yet, standing on the dark driveway, listening to the distant pounding of the waves down below, Bucky feels horrifyingly exposed. The air is fresh and cool and tangy with salt in his sore lungs and against his tired, bruised skin, but he’s too raw, too vulnerable. He doesn’t want to be enclosed but at the same time he can’t bear to be out in the open. His mind is a mess of contradictions, he feels as though he has only an incredibly fragile thread of control over his body, and he wants to flinch at every sound, every flash of light or shift of movement in the corner of his eyes.

“Buck, you coming?” Steve prompts quietly, voice almost insultingly gentle as though he’s afraid of spooking Bucky; except that it can’t be insulting, because Bucky  _ is  _ spooked and Steve is absolutely right.

Bucky doesn’t answer, but his body moves on autopilot to follow Steve and Tony the rest of the way up the driveway and through the door. JARVIS turns the lights on for them as soon as they cross the threshold, and Tony greets his AI tiredly out of habit.

“Welcome home, Sir, Steve, Bucky,” JARVIS greets them, as impeccably polite as ever. “Do any of you require medical care?”

Steve shakes his head, but Tony hesitates, glancing back at Bucky. Bucky, however, didn’t even hear JARVIS’ question. Bucky has frozen in the middle of the foyer, his heart suddenly somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. “Did we fail?” he asks. He’s numb all over and he can only distantly hear his own voice, but he’s meeting Tony’s eyes for the first time since they’d left that horrible party. Tony’s face crinkles up, confused and blinking. “The-The mission? Did we do it? Did we fuck it up?” His chest is too tight to breathe and tunnel vision is setting in, darkness spreading inward from the edges of his vision. It’s hardly his first panic attack, but he can’t even think of any of the coping mechanisms and breathing patterns his therapist has taught him, not when his mind as suddenly come to a screeching halt with the idea that after everything, after that whole ordeal, they had failed their mission.

Tony’s eyes widen and he shakes his head quickly, instinctively taking a step toward Bucky before he catches himself. “You didn’t fail,” he says, hands waving in the air as though he wipe away Bucky’s panic from three feet away. “You did the opposite of failing. Everything went perfectly… until the whole falling on top of the target thing. Which, wasn’t great. But I get why you did it. And it’s fine. Everything’s fine. Total success.”

Bucky swallows hard, though it does nothing to clear the bile in the back of his throat. “You’re sure?”

“Bucky,” Tony says, voice gentling and hands stilling, “you did great. That show you two put on was fantastic - really, super hot - but also got easily over two hundred usable pictures before your detour. They uploaded automatically to JARVIS and he’s already working on anonymously disseminating them to the appropriate news sources. Okay? You did it, and by noon tomorrow that asshole hypocrite won’t have enough credibility left to fill a teaspoon.”

He takes a breath that shakes in his chest, but the air actually reaches his lungs and the panicked screeching in his brain quiets a little… until he thinks of another problem. “They saw our faces,” he whispers. Now that the thought has occurred to him - and oh god, why didn’t he think of this sooner? - all illusion of calm is gone. It’s as though the floor has dropped out from under him and he’s spiraling rapidly down into a giant pit as his life comes crashing down around him. “They saw our faces,” he repeats, his voice frantic, too fast and too high, not that he can hear himself around the rushing of blood in his ears. “They saw us. And-And he noticed your mark on Steve’s collar. We’ve exposed you. And us. We… oh god, we fought back! We hit them. We’ll be executed. And you’ll… I don’t know what will happen to you. But it’s bad. I’ve fucked everything up. Things were… were finally okay, were good, but now I’ve fucked it all up.”

“Bucky!” Tony’s voice cuts through the haze of Bucky’s panic and based on his tone and volume it’s not his first attempt. Distantly, Bucky realizes that his knees have gone out from under him - for the  _ third _ time this evening he’s wound up on the floor, panicking and out of control. Steve caught him, his arms reassuringly tight around Bucky and his chest pressed up against Bucky’s back as they sit on the cool tile of the foyer.

Bucky blinks, and blinks again, and suddenly realizes that there are tears on his face. He gasps for air like he’s drowning. He wants to run. He wants to hide. He wants to grab Tony and Steve and find some remote cave in the middle of nowhere so that no one can find them ever again. But at the same time, he doesn’t want to move - he  _ can’t _ move - he wants to just curl up here on this cool tile and never move again.

“Hey,” Tony says, voice going gentle again now that he’s got Bucky’s attention. He squats down in front of Bucky, keeping his distance at first but then as though he can’t help himself he reaches out and gently clasps both of Bucky’s hands in his own. “Listen to me, okay?” He’s leaning in and some automatic part of Bucky’s brain registers that he’s removed his tie and started to unbutton his shirt, his hair no longer slicked back but rumbled and sticking up in all directions. Public Tony is gone. With just a few minor adjustments, the fake, asshole billionaire socialite Tony has been erased and in his place is the real Tony, genuine and kind, if a little impulsive. His eyes have softened to the liquid brown that only Steve and Bucky get to see.

That expression, and the warmth of Tony’s calloused hands holding his own automatically settles something in Bucky. His awareness of Steve’s lean chest against his back and strong arms around him filters back in and he finds himself leaning into Steve’s hold as though his strings have been cut. Steve’s got his pointy chin digging into Bucky’s shoulder and it’s grounding, while Tony rubs his thumb is slow, rhythmic movements against the back of Bucky’s flesh hand. It makes things a little easier. It slowly drags him back to reality, loosens the choking pain in his chest enough to let him take short, shallow breaths, and gives him just enough energy to give Tony a faint nod.

Tony smiles, though it only fits the barest description of the word, just a little uptick at the corners of his mouth that isn’t about humor at all. He adjusts his grip so that he can lift Bucky’s hands and press a soft kiss to the back of each one. “You didn’t fuck anything up,” he says reassuringly.

“Technically, I did,” Steve chimes in from Bucky’s shoulder, which almost prompts Bucky into another panicked tirade, but before he can react Tony just rolls his eyes and gives Bucky a conspiratorial wink.

“The mission was a success,” Tony continues. For a man who is usually so spastic, so full of energy and movement, he’s holding very still and looking very earnestly into Bucky’s eyes. “Frayser is going to be fucking ruined by morning. You made sure that you and Steve got out of there alive and in one piece - that’s more important than literally anything else could ever be, if you ask me. Which you didn’t, but technically I’m the boss here and what I say goes, so there.”

Bucky is far too panicked to laugh, but his throat reflexively makes a noise that might almost sound like a watery chuckle. “But they’ll know you, and we-” he tries again. It’s painful to talk, between the bile that’s been hovering in the back of his throat all evening, and the shouting earlier, and the thick ball of tears that has now taken up residence next to the bile. 

“Maybe,” Tony allows with a shrug. He shifts so that he’s got both of Bucky’s hands in one of his own and lifts the other hand to brush the hair out of Bucky’s face, then to gently brush away a line of tears. “It will be obvious that they got into a fight, certainly. But considering that they’ll all test with a 0.3 blood alcohol level-”

“And by the time we were done they all had concussions,” Steve adds helpfully.

“And that,” Tony agrees. “Plus the lovely little cocktail of narcotics, psychotropics, and LSD that I injected them with, I  _ highly  _ doubt any of them will remember anything. And if they do, it’s extremely unlikely that anyone will actually believe that two slaves - one a cripple and the other barely weighing a hundred pounds soaking wet - actually beat the shit out of them.”

“You injected them with-” Bucky’s voice runs out and he just blinks in surprised confusion at Tony.

Tony grins, looking distinctly pleased with himself. “I sure did,” he confirms. “Just enough to show up on a blood test but not enough to risk them dying on us. I want Frayser to suffer for the shit he’s done.” He curls his fingers in Bucky’s hair, blunt nails scratching gently and soothingly against his scalp. “So I need you to take a breath and calm down. You are safe. Steve and I are safe. I think of everything, remember?” He wiggles a teasing eyebrow at Bucky, his normal lighthearted arrogance filtering back into his voice and the glint in his eyes. “Don’t you trust me?”

Steve is rubbing a hand against Bucky’s bare stomach, slow gentle circles. He presses a kiss to the seam where the metal arm is attached to Bucky’s shoulder with just enough pressure for Bucky to feel it through the fabric covering. Bucky closes his eyes and leans into it for a moment, letting himself just feel the comfort being radiated at him from both sides while he takes several deep breaths.

“I trust you,” he says after a few minutes, his voice quiet and rough but honest.

“You bet your ass you do,” Tony proclaims cheerfully. He rocks back on his heels and then pushes himself to his feet, holding a hand out to help hoist Bucky up. “Now I don’t know about you, but I would very much like to get the hell out of these clothes.”

Bucky lets Tony pull him up - though he uses his metal arm to help push, since he outweighs Tony and Tony’s not always the best at remembering to brace himself with a strong footing. Steve pushes himself to his feet as well, tracing a hand along Bucky’s metal arm for one last touch as he moves around them and heads for the kitchen.

It’s hard to say what Bucky’s feeling any more. He’s exhausted and dizzy, head aching from the panicking and the crying - from slamming his face into the concrete floor earlier too - and he feels stiff all over. He drops Tony’s hand as soon as he’s on his feet and instinctively curls both arms around his own waist, huddling into himself. He feels strangely… awkward, all of a sudden, like his head is too big for his body and his stomach is twisting with nervousness. Like he’s suddenly gotten  _ shy _ \- a thing that he’s never particularly been, and has absolutely no reason to be around a man as shameless as Tony Stark. He knows Tony is watching him expectantly; he isn’t sure what Tony’s decided to expect, but whatever it is Bucky isn’t sure he’s up to it. So he keeps his head down and his arms curled around himself and mutters something about needing a shower before hastily dodging around Tony and all but running for the bathroom.

No one follows him, which he finds a little surprising but just as much a relief. It’s as though closing and locking the door behind him releases the last bit of tension that he’s been carrying and he sinks limply to the floor. For an indeterminate amount of time he just sits there, back pressed against the door and knees pulled up to his chest so that he can hide his face in them. He breathes, too fast and too shallow at first, but no more tears fall and eventually his breathing settles back down to its usual deep, slow pattern. His chest still aches from going hours without breathing properly, but it’s easier now, distant and easily ignored. Less easy to ignore is the aching from the cut on the side of his face, the itching of dried blood, and the throbbing burns left by the cattle prods. Some of the decorative chains that keep the sleeve covering his arm in place are digging uncomfortably into his skin, and with so much of him exposed the chill of the air conditioner is making his skin break out in goosebumps.

It takes a while, but he does force himself to his feet. He all but tears off the flimsy silks, and pressing his thumb to the biometric lock that releases the collar around his neck almost brings him back to his knees with relief. Being naked doesn’t make him feel all that much more comfortable, but stepping into the spray of nearly scalding hot water in the shower immediately soothes the aches in his whole body. Tony does everything as extravagantly as possible, which means that the shower is practically a room of its own, with no less than twelve shower heads arranged so that Bucky can fit his entire body in the cross spray like a cacoon of steam and hot, pounding water pressure. He lets the water run down his face and just breathes carefully, letting the water soak him and the sound of it drown out his own thoughts. He watches the blood run in small pink rivulets down the length of his body and spiral down the drain. He doesn’t have the energy to bother with soap, just letting the water beat against him until his skin is pink and raw with it.

It doesn’t seem to matter that the water surrounding him is nearly hot enough to boil his skin, there’s still a chill lodged deep in his chest. The longer he stands there, the more he realizes that he’s shaking. He has to forcefully lock his knees to keep from collapsing, and he’s not sure he could pick up the bottle of shampoo without dropping it even if he’d wanted to. Eventually the shaking and the exhaustion win. JARVIS turns off the water for him and Bucky just manages to grab a small stack of ridiculously soft towel before he collapses onto the closed lid of the toilet. He wraps one towel around his waist, and uses another to make a few half hearted swipes over his wet chest and dripping hair.

Then he just… sits. The shaking starts to slow, though he still feels as though an iceberg has been embedded in his chest and his hands feel stiff and uncoordinated. He knows he should get up. Should finish drying off. Go get into a soft set of pajamas. Check in with Steve and Tony. Make sure Steve isn’t hurt. Make sure that Tony isn’t wallowing in guilt. He should… he should do  _ something _ at least. But before he can make up his mind there’s a knock on the door.

“Candygram,” Tony’s voice calls through the door. “Can I come in?” Technically, Tony doesn’t  _ have _ to ask, he could easily override the lock and let himself in. But he won’t. Tony had instituted that rule the very first day Bucky had moved into the house, and Bucky is still unspeakably grateful for it.

He has to swallow and clear his throat, but as soon as he gets his voice working he says, “okay.” He doesn’t do anything else, just waits the half a second it takes for Tony to push his way into the damp room and push the door closed again behind him. He’s changed, the stiff suit replaced with a pair of sweatpants worn through with holes and a band t-shirt so old the logo is barely even visible any more. He’s also carrying their massive first aid kit.

“You still look like shit,” Tony observes casually as he sets the first aid kit down on the counter.

Bucky huffs softly. “Back at you,” he mutters. He knows that he looks way worse off, but still, Tony’s eyes are red rimmed and have dark circles under them that mirror the tight lines still hovering at the edges of his mouth.

“Yeah, well, that’s the price of partying,” Tony shoots back. It’s lighthearted and easy the way talking to Tony is supposed to be and a little more of the tension between Bucky’s shoulders finally starts to unwind.

“Where’s Steve?” Bucky asks. He picks at a loose thread in the towel wrapped around his waist, adjusting it slightly to make sure that he’s properly covered - not that Tony hasn’t seen it all before, but he hasn’t fully managed to shake off the image of Frayser’s hand groping Steve and it’s left him feeling raw and twitchy.

“Still taking his own shower, I think,” Tony answers absently. “Or obsessively looking through the pictures we got. Or both. Knowing him, probably both.” He’s got his head buried in the first aid kit, gathering antiseptic wipes, butterfly strips, and gauze.

Bucky nods, because yeah, of course Steve would look back through the pictures less than an hour after a horrifying and traumatizing experience; whereas just thinking about looking at them makes Bucky want to throw up. He makes himself hold still while Tony brushes the hair away from his forehead. Some people - people who don’t know Tony - would be surprised by how gentle Tony is as he carefully cleans the cut on Bucky’s forehead and douses it with antiseptic.

“JARVIS says you aren’t concussed, but maybe we should get you checked out anyway,” Tony says, his brow furrowed in concentration as he wipes away the flecks of dried blood from Bucky’s hairline that the shower had missed. “We could call Angela, at least. Her stitches are much prettier than mine.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky insists. His voice is still soft and hoarse and he’s having trouble looking up from his own lap, but it’s more about tiredness than anything else at this point. “Butterfly strips are enough.”

Tony huffs as though he’s offended, but it’s utterly insincere. “The two of you are impossible to fuss over,” he complains. “Which is especially unfair, given that your specialty is fussing.”

“Well finish up here and I’ll hold Steve down while we both fuss over him.” Bucky is only half joking, but it makes Tony laugh and that chips a little bit off of the block of ice in Bucky’s chest.

“Deal,” Tony confirms. He finishes carefully pulling together the edges of the cut and plastering the butterfly strips over it then leans back to examine his work. “It’s kind of a shame you don’t scar easily,” he says with a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “because that would be a really hot one.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Are we done?” he asks.

“Uh, have you seen the giant ass burn on your chest? No, we’re not done.” Bucky had almost started to get up, but Tony pushes him back down and pulls out a tube of burn cream. Bucky sighs but relents, letting Tony have his way as per usual. While he waits, Bucky entertains himself by reaching out to play with Tony’s hair, helping to further remove the last traces of gel slicking it back.

“Thank you,” Bucky says quietly, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen over the room.

Tony pauses, glancing up at him. “For what?”

Bucky hadn’t expected to have to explain it. “For… For helping us,” he says. “For making sure we got out of there. For everything you do for slaves. For protecting us and taking care of us. For… For being so patient with me, every time I have a panic attack or a melt down or-”

“Don’t,” Tony says, abruptly cutting him off and it’s almost a snap, sudden and loud enough for Bucky to startled and withdraw his hand from Tony’s hair. Tony’s jaw twitches. His hand is still resting on Bucky’s chest but he isn’t moving anymore and he isn’t looking at Bucky anymore. “Don’t thank me for that.”

“I… I don’t understand.” Bucky hates how shaky his voice is, hates that he still feels so unsteady. He kind of does understand, or at least he can guess, but that doesn’t seem to matter to his suddenly pounding heart.

“I should never have taken you to that place,” Tony mutters. He’s moved back and is wiping the burn cream off of his fingers with far more force than is necessary.

“I wanted to go,” Bucky protests. “I want to help, to be a part of the cause. It’s important to me.”

“It didn’t have to be this mission,” Tony mutters. “It didn’t have to be that place.”

“Yeah, okay, maybe I wasn’t quite prepared for that,” Bucky admits ruefully. “But some mission was going to have to be my first. And it won’t be my last. I’ll… I’ll get better. I’ll handle it better next time.” No matter how easy it is to rationalize his perfectly reasonable negative reaction, Bucky still can’t help but to feel a little embarrassed at the way he’d frozen up and melted down.

Tony shakes his head, his mouth pressed so tight that his lips almost disappear. He pushes himself to his feet and goes back to the kit, though he doesn’t seem to actually have a reason for it and the burns on Bucky’s back still haven’t been tended. It’s more like he’s instinctively trying to put space between them but doesn’t have anywhere to go without leaving the bathroom entirely.

It takes some effort, but Bucky’s hatred of the dark expression on Tony’s face is much stronger than the lingering traces of anxiety twisting inside of him. So he pushes himself to his feet, secures the towel around his waist, and closes the gap between them. He makes sure Tony can see him in the mirror, then slowly, carefully slips his arms around Tony’s waist and presses a kiss to the back of his neck. He can’t quite bear to meet Tony’s eyes, even through their reflections in the mirror, so he presses his nose against the nape of Tony’s neck and closes his eyes, breathing in his scent. “I know you didn’t mean anything you said or did back there,” he says quietly. “I know that you don’t think of us as objects, or less than you. You love us, and we love you. What you do outside of this house keeps us safe, and it  _ stays _ outside of this house. That was the deal.”

Tony bites his lip, his shoulders tight and tense in Bucky’s arms.

“I don’t carry it with me when we come back home, and you can’t either,” Bucky continues insistently. “And if you can’t learn to deal with that on your own then I will literally carry your ass to the nearest therapist and hold you down until you deal with it. Got me?”

Tony huffs a soft sound that’s almost a laugh and lifts Bucky’s metal hand to kiss the palm - Bucky loves that Tony does that, loves that Tony doesn’t treat his metal arm as anything different. “I thought I was supposed to be comforting you,” Tony says, a half hearted note of complaint in his voice.

“Mutual comfort and support,” Bucky retorts, shooting Tony a light smirk over his shoulder. “That’s how relationships work. And you would know that if you’d talk to a therapist.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “You have got to let that go,” he says.

“Only if you stop feeling guilty for the way society treats us.” Bucky squeezes his arms a little tighter around Tony to emphasize his point. “I love you.”

Tony smiles, slow and almost as though it’s against his will. “And I thought Steve was bad,” he jokes.

“Bad at what?” Steve asks as he pushes the door open and leans against the doorframe.

“Leaving me alone,” Tony grumbles.

“Letting him self-destruct,” Bucky says at the same time. 

“Hm, true,” Steve agrees, lifting the mug he’s holding to take a sip. “I made cocoa,” he adds. “Your back looks awful, Buck,” he adds, and Bucky knows he isn’t actually as casual as he sounds, but he appreciates the veneer of calm; as far as Bucky is concerned, there has been more than enough freaking out tonight and he’s too exhausted to go another round.

“Fuck, there’s more?” Tony asks, jerking up so fast he almost slams his shoulder into Bucky’s jaw.

Bucky rolls his eyes, but obediently trades places with Tony so that he can lean against the counter while Tony patches up the two burns on his back. He glances down at himself while he waits, eyeing the burn on his chest and the spread of bruising that is starting to color his ribs. It’s sort of fascinating, looking at the patchy pattern of reds, blues, and purples that cover most of the right side of his body. He also catches Steve looking at the bruises in the mirror, and the patented Rogers Brow Furrow on his face. “Don’t start,” Bucky warns tiredly. “I landed on top and that’s just how it went.”

Steve sighs but takes another sip of his cocoa without commenting. True to Tony’s word, Steve’s hair is freshly damp from a shower, and he’s wearing a pair of soft flannel pajama pants with one of Tony’s robes draped over his shoulders but left open and untied. When he narrows his eyes and tilts his head slightly so that he can get a better look at Steve in the mirror over Tony’s shoulder, he can just see a very small cut at the hollow of Steve’s throat. It’s barely a centimeter long and shallow enough that it’s already little more than a scab. But still.

“Don’t you start either,” Steve shoot at him, narrowing his own eyes at Bucky. Bucky glowers at the mirror but keeps his mouth closed. At least, for a few minutes.

“Is there anything else I should see?” he asks, unable to restrain himself any longer.

“No,” Steve says pertly.

“Are you lying?” Bucky presses. Tony’s head is ducked down to better reach the burn on Bucky’s lower back, but he can hear a barely suppressed chuckle coming from that direction.

“No,” Steve says again. He and Bucky stare at each other in the mirror with narrowed eyes until Tony finishes and starts packing up the first aid kit.

“As adorable as this is,” Tony says, nudging Bucky out of the way so that he can wash his hands, “I would like a stiff drink and a bed. Preferably our bed, together. Coming?”

Steve and Bucky break, their glowers dissolving into fond smiles, and Bucky catches Steve for a chaste kiss as he passes him on his way out of the bathroom. They move in coordinated silence; Steve disappears back into the kitchen, Tony heads for the living room, and Bucky goes to his bedroom to dig out his softest, most comfortable, and least revealing set of pajamas. He hesitates, briefly considering staying in his own room, the thought of being sandwiched between Tony and Steve momentarily suffocating. But then there’s the thought of being alone, of not being able to see Steve and Tony, not being able to confirm that they’re home and safe and breathing, and before he even realizes that he’s started to move he finds himself in the master bedroom that had once been Tony’s but is now jointly  _ theirs _ .

Tony is already there, lounging against the mass of pillows and scrolling through something on his tablet with a bottle of bourbon resting against his hip. When Bucky comes in Tony glances up and smiles at him, locking the tablet and setting it on the bedside table - which just goes to show exactly how bad the night was for all of them, normally Steve and Bucky have to pry Tony’s work out of his limp, exhausted hands. 

“You staying with us tonight?” Tony asks, his voice carefully neutral. Early on in their relationship, Bucky had been unshakably shy about actually sleeping in bed with Tony. He’d let Steve and Tony cuddle up with him in the massive bed while they watched a movie. And later as his comfort grew so too did his libido, but he’d still retreated to his own room to actually sleep. But months past, he’d settled more and more into this strange new life with Tony and Steve at his sides, and he’d begun to spend fewer and fewer night in his own bed. The past few months he’d only spent a night or two in his own bed, and those were mostly when Steve was off on a mission and Tony was pulling an all nighter, leaving their shared bed empty and too big for just Bucky alone. Still, Tony looks like he’s half expecting Bucky to shy away from him again and lock himself in his own room, and like he’s trying very carefully to not pressure Bucky into staying.

“If that’s okay,” Bucky says, even though it’s not really a question because he already knows the answer. He’s still hovering in the doorway, hands sunk deep into the pocket of the hoodie he’d put on. Tony makes a sweeping gesture of invitation with his hand, grinning, and Bucky unsticks himself from the door jam. Carefully he climbs onto the slippery silk sheets that feel like laying on a marshmallow cloud, and makes his way across the bed until he can settle at Tony’s side. Immediately Tony wraps an arm around his shoulders and presses a kiss into his hair. 

“Drink?” Tony offers, lifting the bottle of bourbon.

“You could at least pretend,” Steve complains, entering the room and pointedly holding out the three mugs he’s gripping.

“Yes dear.” Tony sets the bottle back down and accepts one of the mugs; Bucky takes the other two so that Steve can climb into the bed without risk of spilling. As soon as they’re all settled, Tony pours a generous amount of bourbon into each mug of cocoa. 

The cocoa is warm enough to steam and topped with a layer of marshmallows, and Bucky cradles the heated ceramic against his chest gratefully. The mix of bourbon and cocoa is a bit of a strange taste, but it isn’t bad and the warmth combined with the alcohol settles in his chest until it finally melts away the last of the psychosomatic ice that had been chilling him from the inside out. 

JARVIS starts to play some old black and white movie on the screen that takes up most of the far wall, and while none of them are really watching it the low volume provides a soothing flow of background chatter while they all quietly sip their drinks and decompress.

“I liked the beads,” Steve says after a while, his mug half empty and his head all but nestled into Tony’s armpit. “Bet you could make the explosion bigger though.”

“They’re kind of useless if your target is wearing any kind of armor,” Bucky comments. He had emptied his mug and allowed Tony to partially refill it with straight bourbon. He reaches across Tony to idly trace the line of Steve’s clavicle, carefully avoiding the tiny cut Frayser had left at the base of his throat. Steve hums softly in pleasure and lets his eyes slide closed.

“I’ll work on it,” Tony promises. His gaze is turned toward the screen, but they’re unfocused, his mind probably already downstairs in his workshop while he mentally develops new schematics. “Everything else work okay?”

“Might be a good idea to have a panic button that doesn’t require both hands to activate,” Steve muses.

“Yes, that,” Bucky agrees immediately and Tony nods. Steve is slowly sliding down Tony’s chest, his eyes drooping and Tony lifts the half empty mug out of Steve’s hands before he can drop it. Tony looks down at him fondly as Steve’s head lands in his lap, his arm stretched out so that his hand can rest on Bucky’s thigh. Bucky draws back enough to stroke Steve’s arm instead and let’s Tony pet Steve’s hair.

“Your watch-gauntlet worked pretty great,” Bucky comments. He’d spent a lot of time hanging out in the workshop helping Tony develop that; enough time that Steve’s started badgering him about getting an engineering degree, while Tony is of the opinion that he can just teach Bucky everything he needs to know and do it better than any formal education could.

Tony grunts. “I need to tighten up the release,” he complains. “And I think if I double the coil I can increase the power-” Tony keeps talking but Bucky is too tired to keep listening. He’ll get Tony to explain it again later when they’re actually working on the thing.

Eventually Tony talks himself out and they lapse into silence again. Steve’s eyes are closed and his breathing even, but Bucky knows he isn’t actually asleep yet. Tony has that look in his eyes that usually means he’s going to sneak out of bed as soon as they’re asleep so that he can go tinker in his workshop; Bucky has learned that resistance is futile, so unless Tony is really running on empty he lets it go. But, in the meantime, he shifts to cuddle closer to Tony and rest his head on Tony’s chest, soaking in as much of him as he can. Tony drops the hand that isn’t already in Steve’s hair to stroke Bucky’s cheek bone and back into the messy strands of Bucky’s hair. He traces slow, careful circles around the edges of the cut on Bucky’s forehead, making sure that no hair has gotten stuck in it.

“I liked the earring,” Bucky says quietly, directing the words toward Tony’s arc reactor; in an absurd way, he likes the glow of the arc reactor on his face. Rationally, he knows that the reactor doesn’t produce any warmth or anything else besides the light, but it still feels a little bit like basking in the glow of Tony’s essence.

“Explosion could’ve been bigger there too,” Steve murmurs, voice slightly slurred with sleepiness. 

“Not that part,” Bucky says before he can think it through. “I mean, I liked that too. I like all your gadgets, Tony. But I… I kind of liked wearing it.” A flush of heat rises to Bucky’s cheeks with the admission - it’s still hard, sometimes, to voice his desires, the things that he likes, especially when it’s something that serves no practical purpose.

Tony’s chest shifts under Bucky’s face and Bucky can only assume that Tony’s looking down at him. “I could get you a non-explosive one, if you want,” he says, curious interest in his voice.

Bucky fidgets a little, feeling shy and a little embarrassed, and very grateful that his hair is keeping his face hidden from Tony’s probbing gaze. “The clip kind of hurts after a while though,” he mutters. It’s a stupid thing to complain about it, really, Bucky’s pain tolerance is so high that the pinch is barely noticable. And yet… He has to swallow hard several times before the words will come out, and even so he can barely make his voice loud enough to be heard. “I was thinking… maybe… I might like to pierce it.”

Steve starts slightly, sleepiness gone as he twists around in Tony’s lap to look up at Bucky - and Bucky’s hair provides him with no cover from Steve’s perspective. “Really?” Steve asks, but it’s surprise without judgment.

Bucky squirms and shrugs. “Just a thought,” he mumbles. “It kind of looked nice. I’d have to wear something smaller most of the time, something big and dangly like that would be too easy to grab or catch on something.”

“You used to want a gold hoop,” Steve muses, his face going soft and fond as he reaches up to play with Bucky’s earlobe. “When we were teenagers. You said you wanted to look cool, but I always thought it had more to do with your obsession with pirates.”

“You were obsessed with pirates?” Tony asks, and it’s not quite loud enough to be a delighted crow, but it’s close. “How did I not know this?”

“Errol Flynn was his first crush,” Steve confides to Tony, shooting Bucky a teasing wink. “Buck would talk for  _ hours _ about how cool he was, so suave and dashing.” Bucky’s blushing harder and he reaches out to playfully shove Steve’s shoulder, but he can’t deny it. Steve laughs, swatting Bucky’s hand away before settling back down and going serious again. “It’s up to you, Bucky, your body and everything. But if I get a vote, I think you with a pierced ear would be super hot.” He reaches up to cup Bucky’s chin, and obligingly Bucky bends down for a kiss.

“Hell yeah it would be!” Tony agrees enthusiastically, and when Bucky separates from Steve enough to look at him, he can see that Tony is definitely still thinking about pirates. He’s probably imaging Bucky and Steve dressed as pirates; by morning, he’ll have an entire, complex fantasy game mapped out for them to play next time they’re in the mood. It will be ludicrous, involve custom made outfits that will get at least partially destroyed, and end in very athletic sex. They don’t always actually do the fantasies that Tony comes up with, but it sure is fun to listen to him describe them.

In the meantime, Bucky is still caught in simpler thoughts of a pierce ear. A little gold hoop, or maybe a diamond stud. It’s taken him a long time to accept the metal arm; even with everything Tony did to make it as comfortable and functional as possible, he hasn’t been able to fully shake the fact that the original arm had been forced on him. He hadn’t had a choice, hadn’t even known what was happening to him until he woke up from the surgery and seen the monstrosity that had been grafted to his side. And then Tony had bought him and once again he’d woken up with his body changed, with the original arm gone, in its place a socket waiting for the arm Tony would build him. He doesn’t blame Tony for that, Zola’s surgeons had butchered him, he was on the verge of death when Steve and Tony found him on that action block. But that doesn’t change the fact that his body had been modified multiple times when he wasn’t even awake enough to understand what was happening.

But this would be different. This would be  _ his choice _ , something he wants to do for himself - Tony and Steve thinking it’s hot would just be icing on the cake. And if he decides he doesn’t like it he can always take it out again, no harm no foul. “You’d really be okay with it?” he hears himself ask, face tilted up toward Tony.

Tony shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, and Bucky’s heart lurches before Tony continues, “I’m not falling for that. I get no say in this. It’s all on you. You want it, you gotta decide to do it.”

Bucky has to swallow and catches himself blinking rapidly against suddenly damp eyes. “I love you,” he whispers.

Tony grins, leaning down to steal a deep, tender kiss. “This weekend, we’re having an Errol Flynn marathon,” he says, voice low and eyes dancing.

Bucky snorts and shoves Tony back, wiggling until he can lay properly with his head tucked in against Tony’s hip and nearly brushing up against Steve’s. “Shut up and go to sleep,” he orders, but he can’t stop grinning, his chest almost too full with the warm bubble of safety and contentment. He’s clean and comfortable and surrounded by the loves of his life.

He’s home.


End file.
